Always The Wrong Way
by greenfairy13
Summary: 12 stumbled into dimension-hopping Rose. This is part of my ficlet-collection "12 Songs". As it's explicit, I'm posting it separately.


_The dolls inside me cave in,  
>Blood and tears on my skin.<br>My wounds bring up my fear.  
>But I like this last, this last grip.<br>I just wanna rid me of my pain,  
>This happy violence is beating in my veins.<br>It's always the wrong way,  
>There's no return to life,<br>I'm in the car and drive ._

_(Photomaton by Jabberwocky)_

The Doctor is no longer the hugging type of person. He prefers to keep his distance, like every proper doctor does. After all, you can't get attached to each and every patient you treat. It would drive you spare, you need some clinical kind of professionalism.

So he buries his feelings deep down inside. It's easier to move on from people, when you never pressed them close to your hearts, when you never felt their hands in yours, when they never buried their faces in your neck.

Once upon a time, he was reckless with his own hearts, he let others come close, let them rip out his hearts when they inevitably left.

This life around he spends much time alone. Clara doesn't even know how much time passes for him between their adventures. Almost a year has passed for him since their last trip. The Doctor doesn't connect easily with people any longer, it's nice knowing a familiar face is waiting for him, when he needs it.

He watched a planet burn today. The Doctor could save most of the population and still... A planet no longer exists, countless animals became extinct, and the golden hills of Auris Centauria are no longer.

He's back on Earth. The Doctor isn't entirely sure what year it is – not that it matters anyway. He orders a bottle of Whiskey because the colour reminds him of said hills, and the alcohol burns in his throat like the sun burnt the surface of this planet now gone.

It's late already, and the bar is empty but for him and a woman at the other end of the counter. She's sitting deliberately in the shadows, hiding her face from unwanted attention, and obviously intent on getting drunk. She doesn't even bother using a glass – just drinks the Vodka straight from the bottle.

The Doctor watches her from the corner of his eye. If she keeps drinking like that, she might very well end up in hospital. He shrugs. It isn't his business, and it's not his duty to save a stupid ape from itself.

The woman gets up from her barstool, sways a bit, and vomits soundly on the floor. She's clutching the counter for balance, but she's got no strength. The Doctor isn't sure when he got up to help her, yet before her body hits the floor, he's there to steady her. Unfocused hazel eyes lock onto his, her mouth curls into an unsteady smile, setting the Doctor's body on fire.

Her hair is yellow, her lips are pink.

The proprietor comes out. Seeing the mess the young woman made, he starts yelling furiously.

"Run!" the Doctor hisses, pulling her with him. Cold air hits his lungs and looking up into the night sky, he thinks it's especially dark. Was heaven always that black, he wonders.

"No," her soft voice answers, startling him. The Doctor didn't even notice he spoke out loud. "The stars are going out, planets are dying, darkness will follow." She shrugs. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she starts laughing manically. "The night will last forever." She's clutching her middle. First he thinks she's convulsing with more laughter, but then she vomits again. Panting heavily, she gets down on her hands and knees.

Embarrassed by her spectacle, the Doctor pulls her up and into an dark alley. Scooting down the rough brick wall, she comes to sit on the cold ground. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she mumbles, "I'm too late, always too late."

"An endless night," the Doctor muses, eyes raking over her form. He knows her, this woman with bright whiskey-coloured eyes and blonde hair, clad in blue leather and black pants. "Do you know what's the problem with nights?" he asks.

"Only monsters remain," she answers immediately.

"Oh no," he breathes out, pulling her up and into his arms. She's caged between his body and the rough brick wall. "You know the old fairy tales? The monsters turn back into pretty little princes and princesses when the night ends."

She's laughing again. The sound echoes through the darkness, bereft of any mirth or joy. "I'm not a princess."

"Quite right." He's grinning ferociously. "You're the the big bad wolf. And big bad wolves don't wait to get saved – they do the saving."

"I've just slaughtered my prince." The woman leans into him, clutches his shoulders as she wipes the tears from her eyes. "I was too late, and let my prince die."

"I was a never a prince, Rose," the Doctor replies, mouth descending down on her. Rose is too startled to respond. Eyes going wide, she just stares at him.

"Doctor?" she asks breathlessly and he smirks. "I saw you...They pulled you out from under the Thames. Here," she pulls his old screwdriver from her pocket.

"They did." He nods solemnly. "But you were never one to accept fate."

When he pushes her this time against the wall, feverishly demanding entrance to her mouth, she opens for him. Rose tastes of Vodka, peppermint, hunger and stomach acid. The Doctor doesn't mind. It might very well be his last chance to taste her, to touch her, to have her. Nails dig into his shoulder blades, hot air puffs against his ears, her single heart is beating frantically under the leather.

He's grinding against her, deliberately trapping his hardness between her legs. Hitting her aching core through the rough fabric of her pants, he elicits a little moan from both of them. Rose's jaw slackens and her eyes are hooded with desire.

Sucking her tongue's wet flesh frenziedly, he unzips her jacket and pushes up her shirt roughly. His hands come into play. He rolls and pinches her nipples through the fabric of her bra, until feeling alone isn't enough. Shoving the cups up, he frees her breast and starts sucking – he isn't gentle. When Rose whimpers, the Doctor isn't entirely sure whether it's from pain, lust, or a combination of both.

Her hands find his swollen cock, and when she cups him, rolls his balls between his fingers, he no longer cares. Batting her hand away impatiently, he grabs both her wrists in one firm grip. His other hand is in the meantime busy ripping her pants open and shoving them down as much as possible. Rose helps him. Wiggling around and stepping on her pants' hem, she pulls her leg free, until she's able to curl it around his narrow waist.

Releasing her hands, the Doctor hooks his right arm under her leg, steadies her against the wall. His fingers unzip his trousers and he lowers his pants just enough to free his swollen, aching cock.

When their eyes meet again, Rose nods her consent and the Doctor plunges. Burying his length in one deep, hard stroke, they both moan their relief. She's so hot, so much hotter than he is. Her intimate muscles are holding him in an almost vice-like grip and a rush of wetness floods his cock.

Setting up a punishing, grim rhythm, he slams her back over and over into wall. Suddenly, he laughs out loud. While his cock hits the rough spot deep inside her, her _entire_ body hits a rough spot.

Gritting his teeth and bracing himself against the wall, he pushes into her three more times until she contracts around him. The Doctor's eyes flutter closed, and for a split second he thinks he might pass out from the intensity of his orgasm.

They don't talk while straightening out their clothes, don't even look at each other. Rose's back is raw, scratches blemish her delicate skin. The Doctor knows he should feel guilty – he doesn't.

Swallowing and averting her eyes, Rose finally asks, "So you survive? I'll find a way, right?"

Already retreating, leaving her behind like he always does, he responds, "I'll survive – what doesn't mean I've ever returned to life."


End file.
